


I Never Said I'd Love You

by Giggles96



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Destiny, F/M, Female Dean, Fluff, Human Castiel, My First Work in This Fandom, Profound Bond, Romance, Slow Build, soul mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:19:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giggles96/pseuds/Giggles96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mated at birth and forced together through universal laws, Dean and Castiel Winchester are destined to a loveless marriage - wedded on the day they first meet and bound together forever. Dean belongs to him; Castiel belongs to her. But love? What does love have to do with anything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This, I will admit, is a very ambitious story. I have never written a Supernatural fic, never touched on any form of romance in any of my other stories, and I'm only recently reacquainting myself with the show after years of neglect. So I apologise if this sucks. I'm not feeling very confident about it. This was written incredibly quickly and is probably riddled with plot holes, but yeah. Just go with it.
> 
> Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language.

* * *

**'The Evolution'**

Towards the end of 2012, when frequent natural disasters occurred across the globe, massive lose to human life meant that most countries were entirely wiped out, while others were left with next to nothing.

Desperate, years later, broken governments from all over the world agreed that a varied gene pool was essential to human repopulation. Running low on options, they arranged for females to be exchanged between the countries. At first, this was voluntary, but after months of propaganda, they realised that the uptake still wasn't going to be enough to save the species. So it was issued by law.

From then onwards, each country involved had to be fluent in the same language and abide by the same set of established rules.

The consequences would be devastating.

As time went on, ego, vanity and concentrated desire for power replaced love, compassion and morality as human strive for perfection took over.

Suddenly, _"_ _survival of the fittest_ _"_ had taken on a whole new meaning...

* * *

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**-0-o-0-o-0-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

_"In truth, love is all there is. Everything else is just an illusion and therefore unworthy of your time, energy or attention." - Doreen Virtue_

* * *

Dean Campbell's hand trembles and her entire insides are gripped by a cold, unyielding fear, but stubbornly, she fights back the oncoming tears, ignoring the solidifying lump of despair lodged deep in her throat.

In between her slender fingers is a thick, heavy slice of card, to which she glares.

Dean seizes another breath, overwhelmed by the intensity of the emotions that even with all this time to prepare have not dimmed even slightly. Still, after what seems like forever since the moment she'd been old enough to comprehend, she can't bear the thought of leaving.

Sammy _…_ She will have to leave _Sammy_. And there is a chance that when she does, she might not ever see her again.

Dean leans forwards against the balcony's tall, stone frame to catch her final glimpse of the scene beneath. The city glows, bright and luminous - a very deep Prussian blue. Up here, so many stories above, Dean loves to watch the colours. Each new day, the streetlights shine a different colour and every night before she goes to sleep, Dean summons the image of the city's radiant streets and predicted the colour the next day's evening would bring.

Her heart sinks. Tonight, she can guess all she likes, because come tomorrow, she won't be here to witness the outcome.

Dean draws back, flipping her long, dangling hair over her shoulders and pushing the reality away, and despite the quietness of the house, the quietness of her room, she wills for silence.

Staring harshly at the paper again, the young woman thinks, _This is your fault._ _I didn't want this. I never wanted this._

The ink which forms his name looks darker. More alive. But maybe that is only because, now, she is forced to admit that this was happening. Now, Dean has to come to terms with the fact that this is real.

 

_Castiel Winchester_

_D.O.B: 27th of May 2024_

_2nd Subsection, Upper Classification_

 

Dean is tempted, seriously tempted, to toss the envelope over the balcony, name included. She isn't sure why she's kept it for so long. She'd long ago memorised his name and this, at least, isn't compulsory to keep.

The clamour of ongoing traffic hums even louder below her and if Dean takes the time and listens very carefully, she can distinguish the heavy splash of a brisk business man as he sloshes through puddles in a hurry, an impatient car horn blaring, or the yelling of an irritated taxi driver. But right now, she just wants to block it all out.

Her head is really beginning to ache.

With a sigh, Dean turns and treads quietly back into her bedroom. It's hot so she leaves the glass doors open, allowing the cool night air to waft through and moves towards her nightstand, lifting the icy glass of water and taking a small, reassuring sip.

Clambering into her giant, queen-sized bed, she lies down to face the ceiling. In her mind, she pictures her life, all of it, go by very suddenly.

She'd never had a chance.

At school, every other girl in her class had dreamed of the day they would meet their 'perfect match.' _It was fate,_ they'd say. _How romantic_ , said others, swooning over the men they'd never met. But Dean didn't think so. Perhaps she is just bitter, but she dreads the thought of being owned. Partly, because she is afraid of being stuck, chained to someone she despised. But more importantly, she's scared of losing everything she'll be required to leave behind. Like her family. Her friends.

Most of all, Dean is frightened by the uncertainty. She has no idea where she will be located this time tomorrow. For all she knows, she could be in a totally different country altogether. The chances of staying in Kansas are exceptionally slim - one in a million.

There are also other things, of course, such as the man who is, by all rights, a stranger and his family and their lifestyle. What is Dean supposed to expect? What should she possibly hope for?

As the months dragged on, this year in particular, Dean has noticed huge changes already. Her mother rarely looks at her in the eye anymore, her sister has tried to wean herself off her company, rarely seeking her advice, and day by day, the numbers in her college class have seriously dwindled. Anne had been the first to go. Then Katy-Rose. Following that was Rebecca. After that, Dean simply couldn't keep up. Whilst everyone else moved on, for a while it had been only she and her best friend, Lisa, who remained. And then, all too soon, Dean walked in to find she was the only one left. She hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.

Afterwards, she never bothered to attend. It was pointless.

Tomorrow, she will wed this _Castiel Winchester_ and she will stay with him - forever. She won't have a choice.

She and Castiel are, quite literally, meant for one another. It is no secret. Every other being on the planet faces the same issue. The same inevitable outcome.

Almost instantly after birth, samples of babies DNA are taken to determine the quality of their genes, which are then sent to an expert facility that will insert all this information on each individual into their birth file on a specialist computer. Using a virtually faultless system, they take into consideration the child's generics, date of birth, social status and family history before selecting another child of the opposite sex most suited to them. Although officially it was entitled the pre-coordinated genetic mate, this has since became known as the ' _perfect match_.'

Both male and females' families obtain a copy of their child's future partner's details after everything has been finalised, usually taking roughly eight weeks. This may depend on the length of the gap between the dates of birth. However, as they try to ensure this is no longer than four weeks, this tends to not to affect the timing too much.

On the day they are both officially twenty-one (the day of the latest birthday), the female is taken to the male's family where they will, at long last, marry.

The social class in which you end up depends entirely on your genes and who has been chosen as your _'_ _perfect match._ ' People with flaws or defects (meaning they hold the potential for later health problems) are placed in lower class. What subsection is determined by a combination of other factors and the seriousness of the possible problems. People with 'decent' genes are generally middle class, provided they have the money to stay there and families who have a predisposition to mental illness will most likely be co-ordinated with the lower class, despite genetics.

Dean doesn't want a husband- she is one of the few people who never have, but she can't disobey what is essentially a universal law. She and Castiel will marry. And there is nothing she can do about it.

Sitting upright, Dean thrusts her hand into her pocket and slides out the oh-so-important card. She neatly refolds it in half, smoothly gliding her thumb over the distinguished crease, slips it back into its original envelope, and then she stretches over and places it inside her bulging suitcase.

Tomorrow, her twenty-first birthday will arrive. And Dean's life will change forever.

* * *

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**-0-o-0-o-0-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

Personally, Castiel tries not to think too much about the future. His understanding in life is why confront something when it can just as easily be ignored? And sometimes, just sometimes, avoiding your problems _is_ for the best. Really. Particularly when you hardly even know what they are.

Why stress over something so completely out of your control?

It took Cas a while, but now, at this point in his life anyhow, it is advice that he fully supports and would readily recommend.

For the most part, he's not usually so easy-going. It's just not in him. And truthfully, if he had to be honest about it, Castiel would point-blank admit that he's probably the complete opposite- an uptight, structured, control-freak.

But he guesses he's learnt that all this predetermined match-making has happened for a reason, that these plans were set in place to better civilization, so surely, those in charge know what they're doing? Maybe if he'd been brought up differently, he would have fantasised over how she would look in the morning, lying next to him fast asleep, would have wondered how she would respond to his very being, would have questioned whether this was right, if she was as comfortable with this situation as his is. And so far, he hasn't.

After all, this-this Dean, this person whoever she is, has been chosen for him. Granted, one could argue that at that stage, they were merely incompetent, babbling infants and, with those standards, nothing that truly mattered had ever had the chance to be considered.

And possibly that's true.

Castiel doesn't know the ins and outs of her personality, or whether or not, it is even compatible with someone like him, for that matter. But like his father always says: she has the genes, she has reasonable status, and her beauty will match his like no other.

As for the rest? Well, it will all simply have to work itself out, won't it? It is totally out of his hands anyway.

See, Dean will become his wife regardless and, with that promise, if nothing else, he's sure tolerance will grow. She will be his and he will be hers and, once that's final, what other option will there be other than some form of compromise?

Perhaps it is too much to ask for, but Castiel would be satisfied just knowing that if they are going to be together for… well, for forever, really, that she will view him as a respectable husband and trust him with the responsibilities he's been given. Castiel wants to be someone who can handle taking care of all her needs, someone who is reliable, a provider - someone who is completely and deservedly hers. And if not, he would prefer that his wife at least make an effort to get to know him for _him,_ rather than simply ogling his body from a distance - a yummy treat to the eyes every once in a while.

God, how he hopes she's not some brainless, air-headed moron.

He's met plenty of those before and trust him, drool on a six-month-old puppy might look cute and adorable, but dripping down the chin of a grown, married woman? Now, that's something no-one should ever have to see, especially not when said woman is gazing directly at you. If this Dean person is anything like that he'll-

 _Dammit_. He isn't supposed to be thinking about her!

Gritting his teeth, Castiel takes a deep breath, trying to draw his thoughts away from the endless possibilities of his forever. Such circumstances can only ever be dealt with as they come. He _knows_ that. He was right not to get sucked in to all of that nonsense from the beginning. It messes with you, alright. His qualms have been patient enough to stay away until now and he intends to keep them that way until such a time when they're not so pointless anymore. Sure, if he could just solve all those hypothetical issues beforehand, then the burden may prove to be useful, but he won't. Can't.

And in his mind, a clear head and a hot shower is all the preparation he'll ever need for tomorrow.

He gathers the paperwork he was _supposed_ to be working on - before he got distracted, might he add - in his hands and stacks them into a semi-organised pile to deal with later - always later.

* * *

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**-0-o-0-o-0-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

Another fifteen minutes pass, clinking her tongue and gazing around her, before Dean gets bored. Pulling out her battered, spiral notebook, she doodles on the side-margins, nothing good or worth reviewing, just silly little thoughts.

Heavily engrossed, Dean almost jumps a mile into the air when a clear voice chuckles, "I wondered where'd you gotten to. Don't tell me you're avoiding everyone on your last night." She glances up to see Sammy standing over her, gaze intense, almost probing, as she murmurs, "Seriously, though, you okay?"

Dean has to look away. "I'm fine," she replies shortly, staring hard at an unfortunate drawing of a sheep with eyes that are far too close together.

"Dean…"

"Just drop it, okay?"

She sighs seriously and angrily plops down on the bed, and for some reason, this really bothers her.

"Don't," Dean says sharply, quickly sucking in one of those shallow, urgent breaths that kind of hurts. "Don't do that."

Sammy sighs _again_. "Don't what?" she asks, jaw gritted in exasperation.

"Sigh like that. Like we've got the weight of the whole damn world resting on our shoulders or something." She shakes her head slightly and chomps on her lip until she can taste where a damn cut's reopened and has started bleeding, gazing skyward. "'Cause we don't, y'know? So, just don't… don't sigh like that."

"Then, for the love of God, will you _please_ just stop pretending like everything's okay, Dean. For one goddamn minute, please. Because it's _not_ , Dean. It's not."

Swallowing thickly, Dean sneaks a peek at sister out of the corner of her eye and, just like that, all of her anger evaporates and she slumps - defences quickly slamming down. As obvious as it should have been, it suddenly hits her.

Sammy's hurting too.

"Sorry," she whispers and the other woman's entire body seems to soften as she stares back at her, dark frown mirroring her sisters, and right then, something tugs at Dean's heart. Surprising even herself, she takes her hand and squeezes tightly. "Look," Dean declares a tad forcefully, voice tight with conviction, "You just need to hang in there, got it? We'll be okay. _You_ 'll be okay. You don't need me anymore, Sammy."

Dean is unsurprised by her unresponsive stillness and stiff, slowly hunching shoulders. Sam isn't so sure, and Dean doesn't expect her to be.

Abruptly letting go, she lies back and stares up at the ceiling, wishing - not for the first time - that it didn't have to be like this. "Yeah, we'll be alright," she repeats, more so for my her benefit than for her sister's. "Just trust me, alright? It'll all work out. It always does."

All Sam does is nod weakly, but that's answer enough for Dean.

Silences between the two are usually peaceful, but in this instant, it makes her feel like something important is going unaddressed, and because she purposely shies away from any- heaven forbid- chick-flick moments and shoots the subject down every time it arises, you could say Dean doesn't particularly enjoy it.

Shifting uncomfortably, Dean longs for noise. For the sounds not of life, but of the living.

She just needs…Man, she don't know… _something_. Something to change whatever has put this awful distance between them.

Because these days, even though they talk virtually non-stop, it doesn't mean they have any damn clue what to say.

* * *

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**-0-o-0-o-0-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

After saying goodnight to Sammy, Dean lies rigidly in bed listening to music loud enough to rupture her eardrums (Metallica, don't you know it), and draws little diagrams on her arms because she's run out of paper and she's too damn lazy to get up and find some more. Eventually, her eyelids grow heavy, so she creeps into Sammy's room and crawls into bed beside her on the off-chance that tonight she'll get lucky with an hour or two of sleep.

Four-thirty comes and goes and Dean's still restless, frustrated to the point that she could literally punch something.

So… that's exactly what she does.

Downstairs, Dean beats her knuckles against the thick, padded punching-bag that hangs from the gym's ceiling until she's so exhausted that she curls up into a ball and shuts her eyes right there. The floor's not particularly comfortable, but she's so far gone that it doesn't even matter that she knows the shooting pain in her spine tomorrow will be almost too much to bear.

She _knows_ she shouldn't, that she should at least fight the sluggishness long enough to make it back to her bedroom, but with Dean's unpredictability- who knows? Maybe the feeling will disappear.

And Dean's so afraid of ruining this. So afraid of becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy- it's as though she has no choice. She stays, cheek crushed against the grimy floor, blanket-less and freezing, because she's _tired_ , dammit. And Dean can't do this anymore.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I don't know if I'm fully committed to this story just yet, but here's another kind of sloppily written chapter. I hope you all enjoy.
> 
> On another note, I've had one inquiry over the chosen name for Dean and I'll admit, I am conflicted about it. On the one hand, I've been considering changing it to Deanne, because I'm not entirely happy with it as it is, but on the other, this is a future fic of sorts, so I don't know, maybe it becomes more of a mainstream Unisex name? 
> 
> But Dean is such a ridiculously masculine name; it's still a little weird. What do you guys think? Let me know in the comments section.
> 
> Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language.

Alone.

That was one word Castiel swore he would never, _ever_ use. Certainly not aloud. Certainly never something he would confide in anyone else. Yet it tittered on the tip of his tongue, always ready. It lingered in the back of his mind, the foundation to his every daydream.

Even now, actually eating breakfast with his father for a change - for the first time in what is possibly over seven or eight months - he still feels… alone? Yes, that must be it, and strangely he seems to be even more acutely aware of the dull ache than normal.

Determined to ignore it, Castiel takes a long, dreg of coffee and swishes the bitter taste around in his mouth a moment before swallowing and deciding that, officially twenty-one or not, it still doesn't taste even marginally better than it had when he was much younger. So he pushes the mug away and munches on the warmish toast in front of him instead, waiting… waiting for, he doesn't know… Guidance, maybe? For his father to impart some brilliant, shrewd advice on the big day. Reassure him, perhaps. That everything will turn out okay.

But he remains silent.

Frustrated, Castiel swallows his nerves, flickers of doubt awakening in his chest, and states, "I'm getting married today, Father."

"Hm, so you are," he remarks, nodding but never glancing his way.

"Is it not a big deal, then, Father?" he asks, brows creasing as his tries to decipher meaning in his father's unfathomable expression.

He wishes to be seen. _See me,_ he thinks desperately. Why can't you see me? Tell me what to _do_.

"No, son. It is not."

Castiel smoothes away his frown. "Okay," he murmurs, because he's been trained ever so well; he sees no reason not to agree.

Deep down, however, Castiel wonders if perhaps it _is_ a big deal. Not in the grand scheme of things, obviously, but solely for himself. Why can't it matter purely because it matters to him?

Today means so much more than just the beginning of his new life with another (which the young man suspects won't be all _that_ much unlike his old one, though that's besides the point, really). It also signifies the official end of his childhood, his descent into life as a fully-fledged man. Isn't that important?

Years of studying all there is to know about the family business and quickly but gruellingly working his way up the ranks (Castiel's current position wasn't exactly handed to him) had, in a sense, stolen the impact. He keeps waiting for it, for the self-satisfaction that comes with accomplishment or pride in his capabilities - _something_. Anything discernibly different from how he felt yesterday.

But all he feels is… is empty.

And with that line of thought, there it is again. That festering word.

_alonealonealonealonealone_

Why can't it leave _him_ alone?

Although… come to think of it, he won't be alone for much longer, will he? Soon he'll have a wife, someone to call his own. Someone who could stand by Castiel's side throughout all of this.

Cas releases a heavy sigh and begins to feel somewhat better, his chest doesn't seem quite so tight. But then, just as he starts to think that things could only improve from here, that pestering voice taunts him yet again.

_Correction: Someone to stand by your side because they_ have _to. Not out of choice but by necessity, you moron_ And all of a sudden, he is jolted back to reality.

Alone, yes.

He'll still be alone.

* * *

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**-0-o-0-o-0-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

When morning comes, Dean is grouchy, intolerant, and thoroughly retreated into the darkest regions of her mind, thoroughly engulfed in misery.

Tiptoeing into the kitchen, careful not to make a sound, Sammy silently hands her a bowl of what may have once been cornflakes but now resembles something suspiciously similar to heaved, unappetising mush. Dean attempts a smile that probably seems more like a grimace, given the bemused gleam in her sister's eye, before plonking down on the couch with a gasp as the sudden movement jolts her spine.

"Everything alright?" Sammy asks in a chary whisper as Dean resists the urge to roll her eyes.

"Juuussst peachy," she replies with as much sarcasm as her raspy voice can master, stabbing the repulsive food as though, at any minute, she's expecting it to come to life.

Sammy draws in a breath and Dean immediately know she's preparing another disapproving sigh, but a single glare in her direction and the air comes out in a way that is wholly unnatural, but thankfully, wary and silent.

"I heard you come in to my room last night," she suddenly pipes as the other takes her first cautious bite. "Sleep well?"

Dean considers this for a moment. By her standards, a good night's sleep could be anywhere between 5-6 disrupted hours, while an especially terrible one is anything less than two. So, by that estimation… "It's all good, Sammy. No worries. Best night's rest of the week. Almost four hours, I think. I'm actually pretty well energized. You should be proud."

"I guess…" She purses her lips and frowns. "But on Thursday, you hardly slept at all. Kind of cancels that out, don't you think?"

Dean only shrugs and stuffs her mouth with another, well-timed spoonful.

She's tempted to sigh again, Dean can tell. Well, whatever. Sammy's tempted a lot.

At this point, Dean wishes she could provide some resemblance of an answer which is even remotely reassuring, but she can't. For one, her utter lack of knowledge on the subject matter means that she has no idea what counts as normal. And secondly, Sammy's smart, and she knows when her sister's bullshitting. If Dean's not one hundred percent confident herself, then there is not a hope in hell she'd buy it.

Her sleeping habits are far from healthy, that much is clear. It sucks, but... so does admitting she needs help.

For now, all Dean can do is roll with it, and hope that by some miracle, it doesn't drive her insane.

* * *

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**-0-o-0-o-0-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

Standing in her former room, Dean rechecks that she has everything she will need - the bare essentials and nothing more. Afterwards, she combs through her hair once more and wrenches it back into a lengthy ponytail, before scrubbing her teeth and ensuring she looks as close to perfect as is humanly possible, with equally as little effort.

If I want him to like me, I must look _pretty_ , she thinks angrily to herself.

Pfft. Fuck that shit.

She is carting her heavy suitcases downstairs when she is intercepted by her Dad, who makes some half-joking comment about how terribly bad it would reflect on him if she were to arrive with a broken back. Dean rolls her eyes, but lets him take them, recognising the offer for what it is - the only way John knows how to combat the hopelessness. However small the gesture, this is his way of taking back control.

"All set?" Dad asks her, breathless, a few minutes later. She'd watched him, half-amused, half-sad, as he carried them with great difficulty without complaint. Her father has always been a very proud man. Never one to admit weakness. He won't shed a tear and Dean won't expect him to.

"'Course, Dad. I'm ready," she replies, grinning, with an uncompromising strength in her voice which has often inhabited it before. John beams at her, full of pride, and then he pulls her into an awkward embrace.

"I'm gonna miss you, Dean." He kisses the top of her head. "Enormously."

"I'll miss you too, Dad." She stretches her arms around his broad back for what she prays isn't the last time, clinging onto their final moments together.

"I love you. You'll visit soon, right, kid?"

"Sure, I will." It's spoken like a promise, but such promises can be impossible to keep.

He lets her go, taking a step back to gather himself, and Dean hurries over to her sister who has been watching the proceeds from the sidelines with a wobbly upper lip.

"This isn't goodbye, Sammy," she vows fiercely. "I won't say goodbye to you."

"You might have to, Dean," Sam points out, scratching the back of her neck.

"I _won't_ ," she glares, and her sister blows outs that weary little sigh and gives a jerky nod, but her eyes say, _this is it._

Behind Dean, there is a quiet knock. Her father opens the door and, shocked, she spins round. Is it time already?

Two huge, hulking men wait to escort her.

"Two more minutes and I'll be right out." They nod soberly in agreement, but continue to keep the young woman in their line of sight.

"I love you, okay?" Dean hugs her tightly, briefly - any longer and she'd never let go.

"You're gonna be just fine, you hear me, Sammy? You're gonna be great."

Not goodbye. Never goodbye. She'll never be ready.

Dean smiles, "Bitch."

"Jerk," Sammy half-heartedly chimes, ducking her head and sniffling.

Her mother hold back, standing at the end of the hallway, unmoving with tear-stained cheeks, and, to her, Dean simply waves. Then she grasps a giant breath and walks very slowly, hesitantly, to the Neanderthal meatheads at her doorway. They now hold her belongings.

Dean morphs her lips into a relaxed, cocky smirk.

One of the men - the tallest, most bulky, maybe - puts an arm around her and leads her away. The door behind her shuts with its usual _thud,_ but all Dean can hear is the low, muted sound of broken weeping. A piece of her, only time will tell how significant a part, falls away as she forces herself to jut out her chin and takes a small, difficult minute to compose herself.

Once inside the elevator of her childhood, a place where she and Sammy had once loved to play, infuriating all the other residents, Dean is surprisingly calm. They are taking her, practically abducting her, and she just stands there, motionless. She wonders if there has ever been a time when someone _has_ put up a fight. To her, attempting to get away seems like a perfectly natural reaction. However, instinctive or not, it would still be very, very, insanely stupid. She peeks up at the two massive men from under her lashes, all bulging muscles and ruthless jaw-lines, and grimaces. Escaping would most certainly be impossible with these two asshats by her side. Better not test the theory, though, she decides, nervously swallowing.

She watches as the shining digital numbers count down to one. A few more seconds and her life here will be no more.

* * *

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**-0-o-0-o-0-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

With speeds of over seven hundred and fifty miles per hour, Dean sits rigidly in her seat, fingernails desperately gripping the smooth squashy chair. It's plush and very comfortable, but that doesn't ease her distress.

She absolutely _hates_ flying.

In her veins, streams a swift, jittery sensation that refuses to be contained. It spreads throughout her nervous system, contaminates her brain with fretful, all-consuming thoughts and swallows up her entire heart, causing it to throb and then pound at a much, much quicker pace until it suddenly feels like it's about to burst free of her chest.

It's fucking intolerable.

The two bodyguards who had escorted Dean thus far are nowhere to be seen. When they'd boarded the jet, they had simply disappeared and Dean had no idea where the hell they'd gone. Even now, her muscles are still tense with the suspicions that she's being watched. Which, if she is, is really quite unsurprising. For all she knows, this place is bugged with a shit load of hidden cameras.

Dean tries to avoid looking out the window. It's a terrifying reminder of where she is. There isn't much else for her to do other than watch the huge, flat 3D screen on the upper wall, but it's just some bogus love story she couldn't care less about.

The interior of the jet is unbelievably luxurious and Dean can only imagine the funds behind something so grand. The colour scheme consists of a variety of creams, beiges and an odd splash of intense purple, almost black, which seems to absorb any of the natural light, which, in itself, is rare. The room itself was also ridiculously large. Down a narrow hallway, Dean had been informed there is a bathroom, equipped with both a frickin' bath and shower, along with all whole other bunch of crap-tastic 'necessities.' Looking around, Dean can't help but feel just a little intimidated by it all.

Her family are wealthy, sure. But they certainly aren't _this_ wealthy.

Dean begins to speculate, yet again, about what difficulties lie ahead. She has always known, of course, that she is marrying into an exceedingly rich, socially-orientated family, but somehow, she had always managed to discard the thought. Currently, witnessing it with her own eyes, her outlook on the situation has altered dramatically.

It's so much worse than she'd assumed.

The jet seemed to be angled slightly downwards, yet the speed did not reduce and Dean panicked. Her stomach soon becomes queasy and her head begins to rapidly spin. Vision blurring, Dean pinches her eyes shut and concentrates awfully hard on merely trying to breathe.

After what seems like an eternity warring with the hysteria which threatened to crush her, the jet finally touches down on the runway, before very slowly grinding to a halt, and Dean feels the bile build in her throat.

Walking at a snail's pace down the even ramp with the bodyguards who had appeared very suddenly behind her, their arms outreached to catch her in the event that she should fall (which at that moment is a real, almost solid, possibility) Dean's knees tremble, very weak, and she is incredibly light-headed. For a second, she stumbles onwards, before straining to regain her balance and straightening her spine in the hope of not looking like a total wuss.

The next stage of her tedious journey passes quickly. Too quickly. All too soon, they are motionless once again and there is a man opening her door, the perfect gentleman.

For the second time in one day, Dean feels like she is going to throw up.

They had pulled up beside a mansion fit for a queen. It is fucking _huge_. Dean shrinks down on her seat, suddenly feeling very small and dreadfully inferior.

Gulping, she hangs her head, unwilling to take even a single step closer, but the chauffer obediently takes her hand and guides her to the wide, oak doors beckoning her in, in a way which is quite frankly anything but welcoming. Her legs wobble as she stumbles out, but against all odds, she manages to keep it together. Once inside, another man dressed in a fine, grey suit waits and she is taken down a cool, remote corridor, cut off from the rest of the building, and it's only when she reaches the end that Dean realises with a start what's happening.

The man pushes back the door and indicates that she, alone, should enter. But she can't do it. Her feet are fixed to their spot outside. He gives her a small, impatient nudge and with tremors coursing through her, wild under the surface, she budges.

All of a sudden, she is very cold and very alone.

Dean feels numb. Like this is all simply a dream, and tomorrow she will wake up to her sister's exasperating whining - grateful, more so than ever, to be home.

But it's not a dream; this is real.

Inside, her childhood fiancé awaits and she will go to him and she will marry him, a stranger, and then all this endless worrying, incessant stressing will be over once and for all.

And it's that solid belief that will get her through this. Dean has to be believe that, in the end, despite her qualms, everything will be okay. She _has_ to. Otherwise she _can't do it_. She can't think for even one second that the torment isn't over yet.

Because it will be done.

Irreversibly and regrettably done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Ps, chapters may be edited later because I don't know, I'm just not completely satisfied with them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Thoughts?


End file.
